


paris holds the key

by fleetofships



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Baking, Cooking, Culinary AU, Fluff, French Louis, Implied sexy times, M/M, Paris (City), Working in a restaurant is hard, cooking au, it ends in the winter, sooo that counts, the other zayn/liam stuff is waaay in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 23:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2791781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleetofships/pseuds/fleetofships
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>They’re all moments that pale in comparison to what Harry feels right then, standing in front of the dark Parisian restaurant, with the sun barely peeking over rooftops of the 4th arrondissement. It’s a late September morning. </i>
</p><p>
 <i>He feels like he might throw up from excitement, or cry from nerves, or both. But he doesn’t. He’s learned to keep it together. Harry tries to regulate his breathing, and stuffs his hands into his coat to do something that isn’t fidgeting. He’s only been here for two days, but his heart hasn’t stopped beating since he got off the train.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>It’s Paris. Here’s finally here, with a semi-fluency in French, and he somehow gets to extern for three and a half months at British ex-pat Simon Cowell’s contemporary brasserie. </i></p>
<p>
++</p>
<p>
Culinary AU. Harry is an extern <i>pâtissier</i> abroad for three months, Niall gets him the job, Louis is a cheeky server who only speaks French, and Liam is Harry's boss and really likes Zayn's bread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	paris holds the key

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shiptoendallships](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiptoendallships/gifts).



> Title taken from "Paris Holds The Key To Your Heart" from Anastasia (yes, the movie with the funny bat, and hilarious takes on Russian lineage and magic.) 
> 
> I apologize in advance for any bungling of French (I don't speak French. Like, at all) or the culinary world (even though cooking and chef type things are a passion of mine.)
> 
> Hope this fulfills your hopes and wishes, shiptoendallships. I took your "Harry does a semester abroad" prompt, and changed it a bit. Happy Christmas!

Harry’s never been so nervous in his life, and he swears he says this every time something big happens in his life. He can count these big times on one hand. 

There’s the moment he realized he preferred snogging boys and the subsequent, slow coming out during sixth form.   

Or the time moment he stepped onto a train with a rucksack and chef’s uniform, after leaving his mum and dad, the bakery, and all of Holmes Chapel to move to London to attend Le Cordon Bleu’s _pâtisserie_  program.

He recalls the time he kissed Stephen in Regent’s Park, his lips tasting of pastry cream, and Harry realized he was in love. 

There was the anxiety of sending a final tray of perfect, plated almond tarts out of the kitchen during his last practical at school, a public afternoon tea. Him and his classmates prepped the menu for weeks, and blood, sweat and tears were involved. When he passed with glowing marks, he cried, pumping his fists in the air. 

They’re all moments that pale in comparison to what Harry feels right then, standing in front of the dark Parisian restaurant, with the sun barely peeking over rooftops of the 4th _arrondissement._ It’s a late September morning. 

He feels like he might throw up from excitement, or cry from nerves, or both. But he doesn’t. He’s learned to keep it together. Harry tries to regulate his breathing (one deep breath in for two counts, out his nose for three counts) and stuffs his hands into his coat to do something that isn’t fidgeting. Harry’s only been here for two days, but his heart hasn’t stopped beating loudly since he got off the train.

It’s _Paris_. The dream. Here’s finally here, with a semi-fluency in French, and he somehow gets to extern for three and a half months at British ex-pat Simon Cowell’s contemporary brasserie. 

Harry remembers the first phrase he learned in French, and chuckles to himself. _Je vais au cinéma avec mes amis et ma famille._

“You’re here early, mate,” a sleepy voice behind him says, slightly gravelly. It’s Niall, his blonde hair disheveled. He’s holding two travel mugs of tea in both hands. “It’s barely 7am.” 

“ _Oui,_ ” Harry responds, cheekily. Niall hands over the tea and gives Harry a warm hug.

“I couldn’t really sleep. Maybe I was too excited. So I took the metro over here here a bit early,” Harry continues, and shifts his weight from toe to heel, and scuffs his clog against the cement. 

“Yeah, we still have to wait for Liam, anyway, so calm yer tits. I didn’t bring my key.” 

“My tits are calm! Swear.” Harry holds one palm up to reassure him.

“Your enthusiasm is going to kill me one day, Styles,” Niall mutters, leaning against the door, but smiles a little around the lip of his mug.

Harry takes a sip, and the tea is black, strong and good. It reminds him of his mum.  “I thought you _liked_ my enthusiasm, Nialler.”

“I do, Haz, just not before the sun comes up,” Niall replies, scruffing a hand through his hair. “But let me tell ya, it’s what helped you get the externship here. Yer damn enthusiasm, and my winning skills of persuasion, o’course.” 

“And you’ve seen me work,” Harry adds.

“I’ve seen you almost set some caramel on fire,” Niall shoots back.

“That was in our first term!” Harry laughs a little. “Not as bad as getting caught with Eleanor Calder in one of the walk-ins.”

Niall shrugs, shaking his head, and they stand there in silence for about 3 minutes, drinking their tea. Harry’s glad to be here with him in the middle of Paris. Niall has been a constant, comforting presence since they first met back in London, attending the same program in culinary school. Harry tripped over Niall's foot on the second day of classes, and it all sort of spiraled from there. 

A bike bell rings, and shakes them out of their silence, and Harry can only assume it’s Liam Payne.  According to Niall, Liam is never late. Harry takes a look at his watch. It’s exactly 6:58 AM. Liam locks the bike in front of the dark restaurant, waves to Niall and Harry as he jogs up.

“Forgot your key again? _And_ you didn’t bring me some tea? Useless, Horan, useless.” Liam is handsome and broad-shouldered. Great, not only is the _chef de partie pâtissier_ talented and young, but he’s proper fit as well. Liam fishes in his coat pocket to find a ring of keys. “And you must be our new extern, Harry Styles, right? We just love to bring fellow Brits to our little operation.” 

“I am, chef,” Harry responds, politely. “Glad to be here.” 

Liam nods and opens the door to the darkened establishment. “ _Bienvenue à dans son restaurant, Une Direction_. Let’s hope you like it here.”

Harry swallows, takes a deep breath, and crosses into the restaurant.

+++

Harry’s first 10 hour day as an extern _pâtissier_ at _Une Direction_ is a whirlwind.

Liam walks Harry around the small yet impressive chrome-coated pastry kitchen, attached to the bigger main kitchen. Niall hands him a new, seafoam green apron, and chef’s jacket. Harry’s eyes widen at the sight of shelves of _couverture_ and a walk-in with beautifully, jeweled fresh fruit, cheese and anything a pastry chef would want. There are two giant commercial ovens, and loaves of bread and beautiful croissants proofing on racks. Harry is in awe.

The pretty _commis_ arrives slightly after them, brown hair bouncing in a high ponytail. She’s harried, cursing in French. Harry catches a _I’m_ _never late_ and _fucking mobile alarm._ She continues the string of epithets as she finds her chef jacket and apron, shoves them on and washes her hands. 

Liam greets her with a friendly _Bonjour Sophia,  ça va?_

Sophia grumbles back, _Je vais comme-ci, comme-ça,_ giving a so-so motion with her hand. She stretches her arms over her head and yawns. 

She slides over to Liam.Introductions are made --she gives Harry two quick pecks on the cheek-- and she smiles warmly at him as he tries to return the greeting in French. It turns out she speaks perfect, slightly accented English.

“You can practice your French with me, Harry,” she says. “The rest of the cooks here speak only French, so it is best to just jump in with it, yeah? Niall caught on very quick.” 

Harry nods, and breathes out for the first time in ten minutes. 

They all wash their hands, and Harry ties his curly hair back with a bandana. Liam rolls up his sleeves, showing a surprising number of tattoos.  Niall is already taking down trays of proofed rolls, and handing them to Harry to lay out onto the marble counter.

The nervousness simmers away to full blown excitement within minutes.  Liam and Sophia flit between a laptop; a white board written in both French and English; the walk-in; the oven and back, surveying what needs to be done. They’re bantering to each other in a mix of English and French. Harry and Niall check the proofed breads that the night baker, Zayn, started the previous evening. 

To Harry, every kitchen is like a thumbprint; no two are alike. He’s been in so many --the bakery he worked on weekends called W Mandeville in Holmes Chapel; his mum’s, with its warm wooden counters; the clean, sharp lines of the culinary school; the hustling and loud Fox’s in Kensington-- and each one of them has a special place in his heart. He’s learned each of their idiosyncrasies that make each place work, and he hopes to learn _Une Direction_ ’s as well. 

“Alright, _tout le monde,_ ” Liam says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get started. But first, music.” Liam shuffles over and sets his mobile on a speaker dock, and scrolls through the menus on screen. 

“Do y’like Stromae, Harry?” Liam points a finger at his mobile. 

Harry shrugs. “I’ve honestly never heard of him, chef.”

“Well, you’re about to like him or go crazy,” Niall interjects, his hands already covered in flour, and Liam glares. “It’s all we bloody listen to lately. Or Drake.” 

Sophia laughs from behind a clipboard.

“Niall, you’ll get music privileges when you actually bring your keys,” Liam throws over his shoulder. He presses play, and the music starts. Niall pouts a little, and continues checking the bread.

Liam sets Harry on a task of peeling and quartering a metric ton of bananas for a “deconstructed banana bread pudding” for that night’s service. Stromae turns out to be a sort of hip-hop electronica guy who raps in French, and Harry’s tapping his foot to the catchy beat.

“This is driving me bananas,” Harry jokes, holding up a banana peel. 

“Boooooooooooooooo!” Niall cries. He’s running around, pushing trays of bread into the oven, checking on dough. “No puns before nine am!” 

Time passes quickly, and the restaurant begins to wake up. The remainder of the restaurant’s staff end up in the adjoining main kitchen, starting their daily preparation for the day’s service. A few hours later, Harry’s done loads. He’s picked through perfect cherries; peeled, cored and sliced apples; scrubbed out several different pots. He toasts and chops nuts for the bread pudding, while Niall whips up what seems like gallons and gallons of cream. They joke and laugh, mostly about Harry’s slow French. Everything is washed, labeled, and checked off a list.

Harry is happy. Not once does he think about Stephen. Stephen, with his closed-lipped smile and deep brown eyes. Stephen, who is an ocean away, probably tempering chocolate over a double boiler in a fancy New York kitchen.

Okay, so he thinks about him a little bit, but soldiers on through the pang of loneliness. 

Right before lunch, there’s a staff meeting with most of the small crew, and Harry’s anxious again as they gather in the main kitchen. There’s about twenty people on staff at _Une Direction,_ give or take a few servers that will show up for the dinner service. He’s heard so much about Chef Simon Cowell, and when he finally enters, he cuts an imposing figure. 

“ _Bonjour_ , everyone,” Chef Cowell starts. “ _Tout d'abord, j aimerais vous présenter notre nouveau externe, Harry Styles. Il est apprenti en vertu de Liam_ , _quoi.”_ Harry is able to grasp more than few words of the French introduction and nods to the group. 

As Chef Cowell makes a few announcements in French and English, Harry’s eyes flit from person to person on staff. He recognizes the sous chef from several articles he read on _Une Direction_ before scoring the externship. His name is Ben Winston, with a strong, stubbled jaw. He looks a little smarmy, his lips schooled into a flat line, watching Cowell speak. Cal Aurand, the front of house manager, stands behind Ben. There’s about fifteen on staff overall, women and men, and they all intimidate the hell out of Harry.  

Chef Cowell dismisses the crew, and walks over to Harry. “Niall’s told me so much about you, Harry.” 

“I hope to learn a lot here, sir,” Harry explains, through a smile, shaking Cowell’s large hand. 

Chef Cowell nods. “Liam Payne, _despite_ being British, is making the most exciting pastries and desserts in Paris. You’ll learn a lot from him.” 

Later, Harry helps as much as he can during the lunch service with his slow French, and he manages to plod through. No one throws a knife at his head, but he feels slightly overwhelmed.

There’s few more hours of washing hands and zesting and following Liam (and Sophia’s) every order. A lot of tasting, too, and if Liam isn’t making the best pastries in Paris, he’s damn near close. 

All of a sudden, it’s five PM, and Harry’s on his knees cleaning the last of the floor drains. Liam claps him on the back. “Good job today, even if you almost dropped all that pastry glaze.” He offers Harry an earnest, tired smile. 

“Is there anything else for me to do?” Harry holds up his rubbed gloved hands, smelling of bleach.

“No, finish the drains and you can go home. _Merci,_ Harry.”

Rushing through the hallway to the side exit, Harry accidentally bumps into someone as he leaves. 

“ _Pardon,”_ Harry says, taking a step back. He meets this person’s eyes and they belong to a man about his age, except a little bit shorter and smaller. The eyes are a beautiful, storm-grey blue, and slightly magnified underneath black frame lenses. 

" _C'est pas grave_ ," the boy responds, delicately adjusting the fluff of mousey brown fringe on his forehead. His cheekbones are high, angular, and… he’s _pretty._ Shite. Harry can only stand there, mouth open dumbly and head muddled in a mix of French and English. The boy is dressed in all black with a folded apron underneath his arm.  Harry realizes he’s a waiter, and he’s about ten minutes late for the beginning of the dinner shift.

“ _Je suis Harry_. _Comment-tu t’appelles?_ ” He somehow finds the words to introduce himself.

“ _Louis_ ,” the boy answers, nods his head, and he walks away from Harry towards the back office. “ _Bonsoir.”_

The boy says the word with a dismissive flick of his wrist. Harry swallows, and watches the server’s back for a few seconds, then shakes himself out of watching his bum. He laughs a little. It was just a clumsy bump into a cute waiter. Nothing to worry about. 

+++

Harry lays in bed, staring out at the lights of Paris, slightly heartsick. He’s in the tiniest flat he’s ever lived in -- _and he lived for two years in London in the tiniest flat--_ and he wishes the twin bed had more pillows or more blankets. He actually wishes for a specific someone could be in said bed keeping him warm.

He realizes that he's a walking cliché: a hopeless romantic of a baker, miles away from home, in the City of Lights, thinking about love. Trying to _forget_ about love, like. Harry guesses clichés all exist for a reason. 

He thinks about Stephen, his smile, the way his hands felt all over Harry. 

He suppresses the urge to Skype Stephen. Harry knows that he won't answer. But he misses him so much. He wants to tell him all about the first day, how Niall is doing as an apprentice, how the Paris air just seems different. 

He texts Gemma instead: _I’d say I could see the Eiffel Tower outside my window, but I honestly just see more roofs. It all twinkles, though. First day was good. Tell mum I miss her xx_

Gemma texts him back: _Miss you. Please send back a million croissants. Remember: Stephen is a twat._

It was a "mutual breakup" (Stephen's words), but Harry thinks it's bullshit. Stephen was offered a two month externship in New York City at _Union_ , a definite boon to any aspiring pastry chef's resume as it boasted a singular Michelin star. 

Harry would have followed him anywhere, any place, would have tried to make it work. It’s the 21st century, afterall, and technology exists for a reason. He loved --shit, _loves_ \-- Stephen.

Stephen didn’t want to try long distance, or “tie Harry down,” which Harry guesses really means that “Stephen didn’t want to be tied down.” Stephen, so logical and precise, convinced him that this separation of a whole ocean without each other is the only thing that would work.

Maybe Stephen will wise up eventually, and realize that he can’t live without Harry. He’ll fly back, kiss Harry underneath the Eiffel Tower and they’ll open a bakery together. 

“A gay-kery,” Harry joked in London, beneath Stephen’s gray sheets, “in gay _Paree._ ”

Stephen rolled his eyes, and kissed him softly. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry still think it's bullshit, and glumly breathes on the window and traces a heart in the condensation. He wipes it away with his sleeve. Bloody clichés. 

+++

It’s around eight AM on the third day, and Harry is chopping flour. He has no idea why, but Niall and Sophia tell him that it’s imperative, and he’s not going to argue. He’s always suspicious of Niall, but if the _commis_ is telling him to chop flour on a big cutting board with a cleaver on a back counter, he should do it. 

Sophia surveys his work. “No, it should be finer, Harry.” She says this with a deadly serious look, then zips back with Niall to the other side of the kitchen as they prepare _pâte-à-choux._

He soldiers on for half an hour --chopping flour like cutting cocaine lines for a _giant--_ until Liam, clipboard in hand, walks in after surveying the walk-in, stops in his tracks.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Liam throws his hands up in the air, clipboard falling to the floor with a clatter. 

Harry yelps at the noise. “Chopping flour, chef. Sophia and Niall told me I needed to.. for.. actually, I have no reason why.” 

Liam bends over, and picks up the clipboard with an exasperated sigh. “Jesus Christ, Styles, You don’t need to chop flour. They’re taking the mick out of you.” He ends this with a snigger, and a shake of his head.

Niall and Sophia burst out into laughter over the stove. 

Harry stops chopping. “So.. I shouldn’t do this, chef.”

“I’d say not.” Liam reaches over and takes the cleaver from him, and shoves the rest of the flour into the plastic bin. “Put this flour away. Go zest and juice that box of lemons. _That’s_ useful.”

Liam glares at Niall and Sophia, who have now shut up, and walks back to the ovens. Niall is actually innocently whistling, with his hands behind his back.

Harry sighs, hands covered in flour, and frowns a little. He’d made it three days without this happening. Getting pranked as the new guy is standard fare in the culinary world, and often a right of initiation, but he still feels like a proper fool.

Niall slides up next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Aw, bud. Don’t worry, Sophia pranked me good when I started in the spring.”

Harry rests his temple on Niall’s head. “What’d she do?”

“She made me pick all the seeds off 3 kilograms of strawberries. With a toothpick. I was sittin’ in this exact spot with a tiny pile of strawberry seeds, and these naked strawberries and I’ve never seen Liam fall down laughin’ till that point.”

“It was the greatest thing, I think, I have ever done,” Sophia states with a bit of flair from the other side of the room.  

Harry lets out a tiny laugh, imagining Niall at the counter carefully picking seeds off of strawberries in a futile attempt to impress everyone in the kitchen.

Niall playfully punches the side of his shoulder. “Don’t pout. C’mon, I’ll help you zest.”

+++

Niall’s singing along to the Eagles (he actually brought his key today) and they’re zesting and juicing lemons. It’s tedious work, and Harry’s fingers are puckering from all the citrus.

His thoughts flitter to the server with his blue, blue eyes, the high cheekbones and the perfect bum. 

“Niall, you know everyone here, right?” Harry throws a spent lemon half into the trash.

Niall grins, and chucks a lemon rind into the bin. “Duh. I’m the only Irish person here with a fluency in French. I’m _populaire._ ”

“Can you tell me anything about the dinner server with the blue eyes? Like 5'9"? Sorta fluffy fringe. Louis, I think.” 

“I don’t know much about him other that he works the dinner shift.” Niall raises a bemused eyebrow, and shakes his head. “I’ve seen him out with a few lads before. Why?” 

“Just bumped into him on my way out last night, and I want to get to know everyone here, you know.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “You think he’s _fit,_ don’t you?”

“No!” Harry flings a lemon rind at Niall, who dodges it, and it falls with wet plop onto the floor. 

Niall bends over and picks it up, his face brightening in amusement. “You’re a terrible liar, Hazza.”

It’s true, he is, but Niall doesn’t push him further. They sing loudly to the Eagles, and get on with their day.

+++

It’s Saturday night, and Harry survives an entire week of work with only a burn on the first three knuckles of his right hand. Also, he’s now practicing a handful of French curses that a couple of the other cooks teach him. He keeps those in his back pocket for moments like when he burns the first three knuckles on his right hand. 

Harry doesn't expect to be conquering Rome in a day. He wishes he didn't have to scrub out floor drains, or clean all the standing mixer bowls or even peel and supreme 4000 kilos of grapefruits, but he’s working in an amazing place. It’s a lucky thing.

It’s past midnight. He’s in a fancy club somewhere in the first _arrondisement_ with a cover that costs him more Euros than he’d spend otherwise, but Niall cajoled him throughout the Saturday morning shift that they needed to go out to celebrate. 

“Harry’s your first full week at _Une Direction_ … living in Paris.. You _deserve_ to get munted!” Niall then proceeded to smack a wet kiss onto Harry’s cheek before Harry shoved him off with a groan. Niall’s always been really good at convincing people to go along with things, and somehow gets half of the restaurant crew to come along after close, including Liam.

He’s begun to learn everyone's names by now. Jean-Luc. Guy. Adrien. Mélisse. Alan. Sébastien. Pancho. Brian. Vivienne. Isaac. Hugo. They’re all here drinking, smoking and speaking impossibly fast French.

There's also the night _boulanger_ , Zayn, who tends to the various rolls, loaves and other breads served at the restaurant. While Liam is proper fit with broad shoulders and a handsome, kind smile, Zayn is well, _gorgeous._ Harry doesn’t really believe that he’s a baker, at first. He’s more like a model with his long hair tied up into a bun, and cheekbones that could probably cut glass. But he waxes on in Franglish about wild yeast, crumbs and proper crust ratios like with a passion only a _boulanger_ could.

Zayn’s speaking closely with Liam. The way Liam talks about Zayn’s bread, it sounds like they’re shagging. His eyes tend to go soft at the mention of Zayn’s baguettes, with a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, but Harry decides not to read too much into it. Maybe Liam just really likes _bread._

The club is perfectly loud and dark. Harry is drinking some sort of fruity vodka thing Niall shoved into his hands. It’s actually pretty tasty with a pineapple spear, and is making him lightheaded and loose. He suspects that the drink is stronger than it would seem. 

Stephen would hate this place, which makes Harry love the atmosphere even more. 

And there's Louis, in the middle of the crowded, sweaty dance floor, hopping to the thumping electronica, next to Sophia, who’s a much better dancer. But he really isn’t interested in Sophia. He swallows. 

Niall sidles up to him, sees him blatantly staring at Louis. “I see you baby, watchin’ that ass,” he sing-songs.

“Sod off,” Harry retorts, and finishes the rest of his drink. “I can look. S’not illegal. I don’t even know if he’s gay.”

Niall guffaws, and somehow pulls Harry and a half-drunk Mélisse --the tall, curly-haired _garde-manger_ with a crooked smile _\--_ onto the dance floor by their hands. 

“ _Casse-toi!_ ” Mélisse slurs at Niall through gritted teeth, but he whispers something reassuring in her ear, and she concedes.  The crowd is thick, mostly filled with half-dressed women and clingy would-be boyfriends, but they manage to find a spot to start dancing. 

 _When in Rome (or Paris),_ Harry thinks. 

The strobe lights flash different colors around him. The DJ blends a new song into the last, with a harder beat and Harry begins bop his head to it. He isn’t averse to dancing, really, but he’s never really fancied himself a dancer. Niall places his hand on Mélisse’s hips, and places his chin on her shoulder. She swivels her hips against him. Niall winks at Harry.

Harry rolls his eyes. That charmer. 

The beat is driving, hard, fast, and Harry is loose enough to where he starts to raise his hands in time. He must look totally stupid, but he _feels_ good. Great, even. Niall and Mélisse are absolutely into it, grinding against each other like they’ll never have human contact again.

In the middle of the second song, Harry turns, and the flashing lights illuminate, briefly, Louis. Louis who happens to be staring at him. Harry’s breath hitches in his throat.  Louis’ lips school themselves into a smirk, and he runs his hand through his sweaty fringe. Harry shrugs it off, smiles at Louis, and closes his eyes. He keeps moving. Harry is glad for the dark; no one can see him blush. 

A few seconds pass by, and his heartbeat echoes the driving electronica. Thump, thump, thump. Then, someone presses against him from behind, and squeezes a hand on Harry’s hip. A shudder rolls down Harry’s spine at the brief contact, and he feels his cock twitch involuntarily.  Then, a hot whisper into his ear, _“J’aimerais beaucoup enlever tes vêtements avec mes dents.”_

_What the actual fuck._

Harry’s eyes snap open. He spins around, and all he sees is Louis’ back disappearing through the dense crowd, the smell of tobacco and cedarwood the only lingering evidence that Louis was there.  

Harry reaches his hand out to find nothing but damp air, and searches the crowd to find not a single trace of Louis. He’s half-hard in a Paris nightclub, which seems really unfair, and he groans.

Seriously. What the _fuck_ just happened.

Frustrated by it all -- Stephen, Louis, just _everything --_ Harry buys at least three more fruity drinks, dances until he can’t feel any more feelings, and proceeds to throw up in the gutter on the way back while Niall pats his back. 

He wakes up at noon, barely remembering what Louis whispered into his ear.  Fuck, he doesn’t even _understand_ what Louis said to him. Harry yelps into his pillow at the pain in his head. He lies under the covers, missing Stephen so much that his chest hurts.

 _Merde,_ Harry thinks, until he falls back asleep.

+++

“That’s weird, mate,” Niall voices. Harry’s just finished telling him the story of what happened at the club, and they’re both shelling walnuts. “D’ya remember what he said?”

“Not really,” Harry admits. He barely understood it on Saturday, and by Monday, it’s a blur. “ _Avec-mes-dants_ or something.”

Niall offers a small shrug. Apparently, Niall and Mélisse had disappeared to the toilets (of which Harry does not want a play by play), and didn’t see Louis come up to Harry. If Sophia or anyone else on the crew had, they’ve definitely not mentioned it. 

“You should ask him on a date. Maybe you could practice your French,” Niall muses. He raises his eyebrows a couple of times and winks.

Harry shakes his head, and shells another nut. “I love Stephen, remember?”

“Fuck Stephen. That bloody wanker broke up with you so he could blow some Michelin star sous chef’s dick, Hazza. Has he even emailed you?”

He hasn’t, but Harry doesn’t want to talk about this right now. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Niall throws his hands up in the air. “Okay, but maybe playing the field, as it were, would help you get over Stephen. You’re in Paris! City of Lights! City of Love, surrounded by beautiful people every day. _Moi_ included.”

Harry gives him the finger. He’s right, though, and Harry wonders if he could ever get over even the smallest of hope of Stephen coming back. 

He’s going to try. 

+++

The next two months go by too fast.

Harry learns so much in the _Une Direction_ kitchen, he can hardly keep it all inside his brain. Liam and Sophia work him hard, and Chef Cowell checks in on them every day to see the _pâtissier_ chefs’ work. His French steadily improves by bantering with Sophia (it turns out, she has a wicked sense of humor and a dirty mouth) and the rest of the crew. There’s a new set of burn scars and cuts on his hands and arms, which he views as badges of honor.

Liam trusts him enough after two months, and has given him free reign over decorating the tiny _mignardises_ given at the end of a dinner service. Harry spends an hour every day with a piping bag full of meringue or whipped cream and tiny cakes, or sometimes with tweezers and edible flowers. He’s careful and deliberate with each one.

In his off time, Harry bikes and walks around Paris. Before moving, Harry had this picture of Paris inside his brain, which was very much of an amalgam of _Amelie_ and a school trip he took when he was twelve. 

But the city is so, so much more than that. It’s dirtier, realer, brighter, even more beautiful than any movie he could ever watch. Harry begins to fall in _love_ with Paris. He spends the fall days exploring as much as he can, sometimes with Niall, who lives in the same part of the crowded eleventh _arrondissement._ Harry finds new pieces of himself amongst the buildings, baguettes, cheese, _pain au chocolats_ and all the different people he talks to. He fills notebooks with ideas for new desserts, takes loads of pictures, and texts Gemma annoying messages with emoji.

Stephen sends him a singular email asking how Paris is, and explains how New York is _great_ and he’d _love_ it. It takes Harry two days to respond with: “That’s great! Please don’t email me again.” 

Stephen doesn’t write back. Harry is surprisingly okay. He stops looking at Stephen’s Facebook and checking his Instagram.

The Stephen-shaped hole in Harry’s life is slowly being filled by Paris, by its people, its air, its carbohydrates.

And there’s Louis, who hasn’t even approached him since the incident at the club. Harry begins to wonder if he imagined the whole thing as a product of being so horny and lonely without Stephen. Or maybe those fruity drinks. 

Their shifts barely overlap, but they greet each other in the hallway sometimes, and it leaves Harry breathless between the _bonjour_ and _bonsoir._ Louis regards him with a kind smile, myopic eyes shining, and that’s the only indication that Harry has that Louis even remembers him. Harry doesn’t even know if Louis speaks English; he once greeted Louis with a straight “hello” to only be answered with a quizzical look and a response in French. He only catches glimpses of conversations between Louis and the rest of the kitchen staff, which take place in a type of French that Harry will probably never understand.

Harry takes to sitting at the _Une Direction_ bar for half an hour after the end of his shift to unwind. He usually orders a glass of Côtes du Rhône from Jacque, the solemn bartender, opens a book, and pretends that he isn't stealing glances at Louis while he works.

 _Not creepy at all,_ he assures himself. He notes the casual grace that Louis projects as he talks to customers, and it's evident that many here are regulars. He takes care of them and seems to predict their wants and needs. He’s always there with an extra napkin, or more bread, or an extra glug of wine, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles wide.

Even in French, Harry knows that Louis possesses a layer of self-confidence that Harry doesn’t. He banters easily with the rest of the servers behind the scenes, and earns the respect of his patrons. Harry can barely greet Louis without feeling like he's twelve again, confused and curious, and wondering why the boy next door stirs something inside of him that no pretty girl ever has. Harry can't even get the words out in English to tell Louis he’s haunted by the delicate movement of his tatooed wrists pouring wine. _Is it even possible to be haunted by wrists?_ Harry wonders. 

(He thinks about Louis’ wrists and hands while stroking himself in the flat's minuscule shower, and Harry can’t help but cry out when he spills into his hand.)

Sometimes, Harry marks the days down in his notebook: 

_Day 44. Piped mousse into cups. Louis didn’t wear glasses, and his eyes are still beautiful and blue._

_Day 45: Burned myself on caramel. Asked Sophia about Louis and she said that’s he’s been working at UD for almost a year. She doesn’t know much else, except that he really likes football. And she once saw him kiss a boy at a club_

_Day 48: There’s something about the look of French boys, Louis included, that make them seem irritatingly entitled to blow jobs. Wankers._

Louis is a mystery, and Harry wants to solve him; instead, Harry sits pathetically at the bar with his wine and notebook, wondering if he’ll ever muster the courage to talk to Louis again.

+++

It’s early December, and Harry wakes up to the sound of his alarm in his cold flat and stares at the ceiling. There’s a vague sense of unease pooling in his stomach, and he has no idea why. Nothing is really different, except the days are growing shorter and colder.

Harry takes a deep breath. He hasn’t spoken to Stephen since that last email, but that’s not what’s giving him pause.  He then realizes there are two weeks left of his externship, and Harry doesn’t know where he’s going after the Christmas holiday. He’s sent off a few applications to other restaurants in Paris and London, riding on his experience at _Une Direction._

The real problem is that Harry only has two weeks to talk to Louis, whom he absolutely can’t get out of his brain, with his thick glasses, cute fringe, and tattoos. Oh God, the tattoos. He’s only seen a few of them on his wrist, and Harry wonders if there are more all over his arms, or chest, and… wow, Harry can’t breathe all of a sudden.

Harry jumps out of bed, shivering in his pants, and the hardwood floor is freezing beneath his feet and the window is drafty. He doesn’t care: he’s going to finally talk to Louis. It’s bollocks that he’s been in Paris this long and no one’s wanted to touch him, while Stephen is probably shacked up in some Brooklyn hipster’s apartment. 

Harry Googles a list of French pick up phrases, finds the least offensive ones, and copies and pastes them into his mobile. _This is it, Styles. You’ve got this._

 _"Je peux vous inviter a boire un cafe?"_ (Asking Louis to coffee.)

 _"J'aime vos chaussures, elles sont originales."_ (Telling Louis is shoes look unique. Maybe not the best choice.)

 _"Pardonnez-moi, mais ca a l'air delicieux! C'est quoi?"_ (Harry really has no idea where he’d use this, but they do work at a restaurant.) 

He will say hi to Louis after today’s shift, ask him out for a drink, and his French will be perfect. He hopes Louis will say _oui_ , and doesn’t know how he’ll feel if Louis says _non._

+++

The morning shift is mostly a disaster. Everyone is on edge, because a famous French chocolatier, Michel Damant, requests to have the restaurant shut down for a private birthday luncheon for extended family and friends. Liam keeps double and triple checking the walk-in, their task list and the special desserts he’s made especially for today, muttering to himself in French and assigning jobs in a rapid pace to the crew. He reminds Harry a bit like a manic Sonic the Hedgehog. 

Niall shows up an hour late, due to some mobile alarm issues (Harry wonders if it was something to do with Mélisse, whom Niall’s been seeing on and off for the past two months), and Liam absolutely reams him in the back office. Harry hears a _if you weren’t so good otherwise, I would sack you. Do_ not _show up late again._

Niall mopes for most of the morning, and snipes at Harry, totally unlike himself. 

Sophia drops a whole tray of lavender marshmallows on the floor, rendering them mostly useless. She screams _merde_ and Harry helps her pick them up, and tears prick at the corners of her eyes. 

“Days like today, _quoi,_ ” Sophia starts, and she just trails off in French, and throws the marshmallows into a garbage bin.

Liam finishes a beautiful, giant chocolate cake for Monsieur Damant, and Harry watches him decorate it with ease from across the room. An hour before the luncheon, Harry reaches over the counter for something in an upper cupboard. He hears Liam scream his name, then clamps his hands over his mouth in shock.

Following his gaze, and much to his horror, Harry realizes that he inadvertently brushed his apron against the perfect surface of the cake, marring its immaculate decoration with a gash. Harry doesn’t know what to say, but his mind is reeling. 

_I am so fucked. It’s an hour before the lunch, and I ruined this cake. Fuck. My. Life._

Liam shoves him out of the way, and sighs, scratching his chin. Harry’s head falls into his hands, and he’s gutted. He sulks out of the kitchen and into the hallway, away from Liam, and wipes up at the icing on his apron, a brown stain smearing across the seafoam green cotton. 

He doesn’t cry. He won’t cry.

“It’s going to be okay,” Niall says, his tone significantly softer than of the day in an effort to console Harry. “Liam can figure something out. It’s not the end of the world. He’s a _genius._ ” 

Niall pats the back of his neck, and squeezes his shoulder. 

Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s not. This is the _worst_ and Liam is going to _fire_ me.”

“I am _not_ going to fire you, Styles.” Liam’s head pops through the door, and he has a surprisingly calm expression on his face. “ _Mais tout le monde fait des erreurs!_ I’m going to pipe some decorative elements on that side of the cake. It’ll look fine. Just be more careful next time, Harry.”

Liam manages to salvage the rest of the cake with some piping bag tricks and magic. The cake is still beautiful. Harry’s confidence is shaken even though the luncheon goes well, and Chef Cowell congratulates them on a job well done. 

At four-thirty, as he’s cleaning out the floor drains with rubber gloves on, a reminder pings on Harry’s mobile: _TALK TO LOUIS - 5PM._

Harry swallows. He can do this. He’s lived through a hellish shift --not the first, and not the last-- and he can do this.

But first, he’s got to clean this floor drain.

+++

Harry scrambles out of the side door, having discarded his chef’s jacket and apron, and hopes he can meet Louis before his shift starts. The sun is dipping below the horizon and he knows Louis should be at the restaurant soon.

Harry actually finds Louis leaning against the building, ankles crossed, smoking next outside of the restaurant, surprisingly ten minutes early for the start of his shift. He’s clad in all-black, as always, except for a navy blue scarf that he’s wrapped around his neck. Louis is red-cheeked from the cold, and his fringe is swept to the side. Harry hesitates as he watches Louis take the last, deep drag of his cigarette, cheeks hollowing. 

 _God_ is he pretty. And _God_ is Harry nervous. 

“ _Bonjour, Harry,_ ” Louis says, warmly, smoke escaping from his mouth in a puff. 

“ _Bonjour, Louis,_ ” Harry barely manages to get out. His palms are beginning to sweat. He’s never had much trouble talking with people, but here in Paris, in front of a pretty boy, he does. He swallows the urge to turn and run. But it’s now, or live with the fact that he never even _tried_ to figure out Louis. 

“So I,” Harry starts, stepping closer to Louis, cracking a knuckle. “Shit. How do I even start? I’m speaking fucking English. _Pardon._ ”

Louis’ laughs a little, an amused expression sweeping across his face, and he raises an eyebrow. He uncrosses his ankles. “ _Quoi?_ ”

“Just wait, ugh.” Harry is scrambling, and fumbles in his jeans pocket for his mobile. He thumbs through his apps to the list of French lines. He glances up at Louis, and he’s waiting with the same amused expression for Harry to say anything.

“ _Jepeuxvousinviteraboireuncafe?”_ Harry rushes through reading the words on the screen, barely leaving room to breathe.

Louis is smiling at him wickedly, and doesn’t say anything, but he giggles a little. It’s bright and breathy, and makes Harry want to fall over. “ _Hmm, c’est-à-dire?”_

“ _Merde,_ you didn’t understand that at all.” Harry scrubs a hand over his face, through his curly hair, wondering what to do. He repeats it, slower. If he’s going to make a fool of himself, he might as well get it right. “ _Je peux vous inviter a boire un cafe?”_

Louis starts laughing again, and stubs his cigarette with his heel. Louis shakes his head and takes a few steps towards Harry, his eyes sympathetic. This is the closest that Harry and Louis have been since the club, and Harry realizes there isn’t enough air all of a sudden. 

Harry sighs loudly, and glances at his phone again. “Okay how about, _j'aime vos chaussures--_ ” 

And that’s when Louis reaches over, covers Harry free hand with his own, and stops Harry from continuing.

“You have a really great French accent, Harry, but no one in Paris uses pick up lines, you know,” Louis states in plain, British English.

Harry almost drops his phone at the same time his jaw drops. He is staggered. “No _fucking_ way. You speak English?”

Louis seems really interested in his own shoes all of a sudden, and scuffs one of them against the pavement.  “I _am_ English, Harry. I’m from Yorkshire, originally. No one knows, except Chef Cowell, really.”

The wind is knocked out of Harry’s chest, and Louis looks up at Harry from behind his glasses, a mischievous smile curling on his lips. His cheeks are still flushed. Harry’s still in disbelief at what Louis is saying, and at how Louis’ hand feels dry and warm against his. He doesn’t _get_ it. "Your French is flawless, though.” 

Louis takes a deep breath, chews on the side of his lip, and explains. "I'm half-French. I’ve got dual-citizenship and everything. I spent summers in Paris with my _Mémé_ , mostly. My mum's insistent on having her kids be bilingual.”

Harry barks out a laugh, and pockets his mobile. “I feel like a fucking fool. I’ve literally _stalked_ you here at the restaurant, and I could have just, I dunno, chatted you up like a normal bloke.” 

Louis squeezes his hand, and shakes his head. "Don't. I don't really speak much English around here, not even to Niall."

"Niall _knew_?” He’s going to possibly strangle Niall. 

"I made him keep it a secret. I liked you, with your curly hair and skinny limbs and slow French. But you’re an extern,” Louis says, softly, and his eyebrows knit together, forming a v.  “You’re leaving in two weeks, aren’t you?”

Harry nods. “I’ll be in Holmes Chapel for Christmas, then I have no idea where I’ll be after that. London. Back here. Who knows.” Harry gives into the urge to pull Louis closer by the hip, and Louis comes easily. “I just know that you’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. And I don’t want to leave France not knowing what could have been. Even if it’s just a date, like.”

Louis cocks one hip to the side, and his expression softens. “You’re seriously making me feel emasculated, Harry. But I guess I _am_ very pretty.” 

“Can we go out after your shift? I don’t have to work tomorrow. I’ll bring wine and make sandwiches. I make good sandwiches.”

Louis strokes his thumb against Harry’s wrist as he contemplates Harry’s offer, and Harry makes note of how it feels against his skin. There’s a recent, shiny burn from a sputtering sugar syrup, and Louis strokes it, gently. “Okay -- meet me back here at around midnight. _Bien?”_

Harry looks down at Louis, and realizes how very much he’d like to kiss the smirk off his face. “ _Oui._ ”

Harry’s mind is screaming _just sod it all,_ so he fits his fingers under Louis’ chin, and dips down to touch his lips to Louis.  Harry’s eyes flutter close, heartbeat loud in his ears. It takes two long, eternal seconds for Louis to react, but he finally melts against Harry’s advance. It starts small and soft, then Louis becomes more insistent, opening his mouth to Harry. Harry relishes the feel of Louis’ stubble beneath his fingers, and the softness of his hair as Harry tangles his fingers in it. Harry doesn’t usually like the taste of cigarettes on another person, but he doesn’t mind it on Louis. 

Kissing Stephen is like eating a familiar, ordinary baguette. Baguettes are simple yet delicious, and Harry has had a million of them in his lifetime. He takes them for granted. But kissing Louis is cracking the burnt sugar top of a crème brûlée before having the first bite. It’s pleasurable beyond words and elicits a shiver of delight down Harry’s spine.

Harry pulls back and remembers. “What did you say at the club that night? That _was_ you who whispered into my ear. I wasn’t imagining things.”

Louis’ tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, and he chuckles. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “ _I’d like to take your clothes off with my teeth._ Cheeky, innit?”

Harry flushes, and brushes his lips against Louis’ again. “Midnight, Louis, midnight. I’ll be here then.” 

Harry turns to leave, but Louis pulls him back by the wrist. “There’s _one_ pick up line that works, Harry. Want to hear it?”

Harry cocks his head to the side. “Duh.”

Louis clears his throat. “ _Quand je t’ai vu pour la première fois, c’était le coup de foudre._ ” 

Harry tries to parse it. “When you saw me… something about a strike of lightning?”

Louis reaches up and touches Harry’s lips with the tips of his slender fingers. “It’s an idiom. ‘When I saw you, it was like a strike of lightning.’ ‘I fell head over heels’ is the English equivalent. Like a strike of lightning, I reacted to you immediately. I saw you, and I wanted nothing more to touch you. I’ll see you tonight.”

+++

_Day 62:_

_I kissed Louis. We drank red wine out of the bottle by the Seine after his shift, and talked about everything. I took him home._

_He’s still asleep, and… I’m happy._

_Day 64:_

_Found out Liam and Zayn have been shagging for ages. I knew it._

+++

It’s almost two weeks later, and in the middle of piping waves of hot meringue onto _tartes au citron,_ Harry’s called into Chef Cowell’s office. Niall throws him a thumbs up. 

“Harry, sit down, please.” Cowell motions to a chair in front of his desk. Harry’s nervous again, just like his first day, which seems so long ago now. Harry sits down, and folds his hands in his lap, not knowing what to do otherwise. “We have something to talk about.” 

“You’re leaving Paris, correct?” Cowell asks, crossing his legs. “For the Christmas holiday.”

“Yes, chef,” Harry replies, calmly. “Back to England for three weeks, then… I don’t know, to be honest.”

Back to England, with the question of what Louis and him _are_ hanging over him. He fancies Louis quite a lot already. Shit, he might be in _love_ with Louis. Maybe he’s been in love with Louis since the club; he doesn’t know. He just knows that Harry wants Louis to be more than a two week fling, but he knows it’s not fair to ask Louis to be in a long distance relationship. Or if he even would _consider_ it. 

It’s been so nice with Louis, is all. He’s a little bit guarded, but otherwise he’s so lively and teasing and fun and… he meets Cowell’s eyes, and promptly stops thinking about Louis.

Cowell purses his lips. “Do you want to stay in Paris, Harry?”

“If the opportunity presented itself.” Harry pauses, and thinks about Louis, his beautiful cheekbones, and the way he looks in the morning. He thinks about Niall and how hard he works despite how much fun he has. He thinks about how much Liam and Sophia and the rest of them at _Une Direction_ have taught him. He doesn’t want to leave. “But none have yet.”

“Liam has said nothing but positive things about you. Sophia, too, and she’s a tough nut to crack.” Cowell’s expression is unreadable as he nods, until a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He steeples his thick fingers underneath his chin. “What if I offered you a job here at _Une Direction_?”

Harry almost cries on the spot. 

+++

It’s the day before Harry leaves his tiny flat, and his meager possessions are packed into two duffle bags. He has a month to find another flat in Paris, which includes the holidays, now that he’s accepted the position as second apprentice _pâtissier_ to Liam Payne at _Une Direction._

He has a train to catch tomorrow to London, to Manchester, to Holmes Chapel. To Christmas, his mum’s cookies, his sister’s hugs. 

But right now, he’s on the second level of the Eiffel Tower, wrapped in a scarf and coat, smiling at Louis leaning on the railing. There's a wisp of snow in the air. Nothing else really matters. 

“I can’t believe we’re _tourists,_ Hazza,” Louis comments, blowing into his cupped hands. “It’s freezing, and I’m on the Eiffel Tower.” He pulls his grey beanie further down to cover his ears and mutters something low in French that Harry barely catches. Louis shoves his hands into his coat pockets. 

“Shut up, it’s _romantic,_ Lou.” Harry nudges him with a shoulder. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute, and have a good arse, darling.” Harry notices he sounds more fond than annoyed. 

“If anyone has a good arse, it’s you,” Harry throws back, taking a panoramic picture on his phone. It’ll be a good one to send his mum.  “Also, I haven’t been here since I was a kid on a school trip. Let me have this.”

Louis shrugs, and pecks him on the cheek. “Fine, fine.” 

“I’ve always wanted to open a bakery in Paris,” Harry says out of nowhere. “A gay-kery.” 

“In Gay _Paree,_ ” Louis volleys back without any prompt, and Harry almost tells him he loves him right on the spot. But he doesn’t.

Louis links arms with Harry and they’re both resting against the railing, the brisk air sharp in their lungs, tourists of every nation chattering around them and taking pictures. But Harry imagines that they’re alone up there, and Paris is laid out only for them, and the only sound is the wind and Louis’ breathing.

“Paris really is beautiful,” Louis says quietly, finding Harry’s hand. He twines their fingers together.

Harry doesn’t say anything back, and just relishes in the warmth of Louis pressed against him. He’s enjoyed their last two weeks together, and after Harry told Louis about accepting the position _Une Direction,_ Harry noticed a change in Louis. He’s less guarded, and more generous with his affection now that Harry’s staying in Paris. 

“My mum wants me to come home for Christmas,” Louis says, setting his head against Harry’s shoulder. “Since the restaurant is closed for two weeks, I said yes. So, I’ll be in Doncaster with my million siblings. S’not that far from Holmes Chapel, right?”

“It’s like two hours, tops,” Harry responds, and rubs his cold cheek against the wooly fabric of Louis' beanie.

“Can I see you?” Louis sounds strangely meek. “I can drive over.” 

Harry turns to face him, and takes both of his smaller hands. “Course, Lou. I’d love to see you. You can come ‘round to my mum and stepdad’s on Boxing Day. I can show you all of Holmes Chapel in about an hour.” 

"It's also my birthday on Christmas Eve, Harry, so I expect loads of homemade fairy cakes." A ghost of a smile tugs at Louis’ mouth. Harry touches the tip of a gloved finger to the corner of Louis' mouth as if to say _absolutely._ He wants to bake everything for Louis.

“Showing your boyfriend his tiny hometown on Boxing Day. Quaint, innit?” Louis supplies, and squeezes Harry's hand.

Harry cocks his head, and raises an eyebrow. “You my boyfriend now, Lou?”

A hopeful smile spills across Louis' face, and he breathes out through the side of his mouth. “Sorry, is that too soon? I don’t want to be with anyone else right now, but if you think that’s--”

Harry dips down and interrupts his chatter by pressing his lips softly to Louis’, not giving an iota of a damn that they’re in a very crowded place. Harry pulls back. “Not too soon, Lou. I’m all yours, love.” 

Louis smiles at up at Harry, eyes crinkling wonderfully at the corners. “ _Bien._ ”

Harry presses his lips against Louis temple, right above the arm of his glasses, and whispers into his ear, “ _Quand je t’ai vu pour la première fois, c’était le coup de foudre._ ”

Louis laughs, high and bright, and Harry never wants to stop hearing it. They kiss, and Harry understands what it is to be struck by lightning.

**Author's Note:**

> Much love to my lovely Amanda for the help with French. For Loose and Hanna for the beta'ing and support. To Clo, for just being there and cheering me on. Love you all. Go kiss your loved ones, and eat the fuck out of a croissant, oui.


End file.
